


Mute Longings

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Erotica, M/M, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:57:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1940166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes what I am doing is just plain a writing exercise: an attempt to see what I can do within certain parameters. In this case, I wanted to see how much I could do without dialog.</p><p>Dialog is where my writing began: I'm a theater babe, and my first work was almost pure talking-head line-work. Yet there are people who one honestly suspects may not be talky. Sometimes I think Mycroft and Lestrade might well be quite content to have a relationship in near silence--and letting them have one forced me to see what I could do without resorting to words. </p><p>I broke down in three places. One I logically could not believe would be met with silence by both men--one, maybe, but the other would cut in with practical speech, as some things should be stated. Two are just--not allowing sound or words felt forced: a bit too twee and cute and "see how clever I am." So I let them talk the tiny bit they wanted. Otherwise, though--it's relationship and love and sex without words--and with focus sight, sound, taste, touch, action. Then I even close out sight.</p><p>I'm not sure it's good--but it was interesting to write. See what you think.  I will try to get back to "Time and Memory" over the weekend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mute Longings

Ten years, they’d known each other.

Lestrade tallied them, one night. The first meeting in the big conference room of MI6. The night spent together in A&E as the doctors attempted to stabilize Sherlock’s racing metabolism, balancing sedatives gingerly in a desperate measure to slow the pounding heart and relax the airways of his lungs. The “chance” meetings at crime sites, exchanging silent nods.

Silence. If Lestrade had to sum their ten years up in any way, the silence would outweigh the words exchanged. But, then, they were men of secrets and shadows.

They knew each other surprisingly well, for all that. Lestrade knew what even Sherlock refused to know—that his brother cried the night of the overdose. Mycroft knew Lestrade put his fist through the wall of a pub the night he went home and found his wife gone for the final time—Mycroft was the one who paid the cost of repair and retrieved Lestrade when the barkeep punched up the autodial that said, simply, “Emergency Contact.” Lestrade knew that on rainy spring days, if you knew what to watch for and where to look, you could occasionally catch Mycroft Holmes out purchasing a bundle of daffodils, burying that long beaky nose in the green and gold, entranced. Mycroft knew that on a rotten night it was an act of kindness to buy Lestrade a hot salt beef sandwich from B&K’s, a gift out of the blue at the end of a hard day.

It was a very male relationship. Lestrade didn’t know whether to count it as merely professional, or as one of those rare professional ties that turn into life-long friendship. He just knew that in all their not-talking, they had come to know each other well.

So he wasn’t completely unprepared for the night at the Diogenes. He’d arrived to drop off a report, already recorded onto a thumb drive. Mycroft nodded Lestrade toward one of the club chairs and silently waved one of the staff over with a drinks list. Lestrade, already aware of the rules of the Diogenes, looked it over and pointed to the Clynelish single malt. The footman took the list to Mycroft, who indicated his own choice, and disappeared, reappearing a short time later with two cut-glass Old Fashioned glasses. Lestrade took his; Mycroft took his own. The two waited for the footman to leave—then Mycroft raised his glass in silent toast, and Lestrade did likewise.

They sat together in the silent room, drinking their scotch. Occasionally their eyes met in calm goodwill. Lestrade stretched, drooping deep into the padded leather of the chair, letting his legs sprawl out ahead of him. Mycroft, more formal, still relaxed enough to twist in his chair, tucking his feet sideways against the front corner of the chair, leaning pensively against one plush, plump upholstered arm. When he finished his drink, Mycroft risked reaching out with one toe and tapping Lestrade’s foot. When the other man looked over, he tapped his empty glass and flashed two fingers, raising his brows in question. Lestrade checked his glass. Still half full. He shook his head and waved his hand over the top, indicating he was fine. Still, when Mycroft’s second arrived he was the one to raise his glass, initiating the toast.

Mycroft smiled.

Lestrade smiled back and leaned into the chair, eyes fluttering shut. He sipped his drink, soon finishing. As he balanced the empty glass on the arm of the chair, Mycroft tapped his toe again, once more silently asking if he wanted a refill. He shook his head and let the footman collect his glass—but didn’t leave, instead enjoying the warmth and peace and the silent companionship.

Mycroft finished his drink. The glass was collected. Mycroft rose—then stood, silent, studying Lestrade.

The detective was open-eyed, alerted by the activity. Seeing Mycroft stand, he started to rise, only to have his host shake his head—and continue looking. Lestrade settled back into the chair, waiting.

Mycroft cocked his head, eyes quiet and considering. Then, to Lestrade’s surprise, he gave a small, mischievous smile, then jerked his head up, letting his eyes flick quickly ceiling-ward, gesturing a chipper question—a silent, “Want to go upstairs?”

Lestrade had been up to the private rooms a time or two—usually to drop off material sufficiently secret that even a the comparative privacy of the downstairs rooms of silence were too public. He knew Mycroft kept a suite there. He knew it was a very, very nice suite. He also knew there was no reason to go there…at least, none by the rules of the friendship to date.

He held Mycroft’s gaze, face quiet and speculative. He let his head tip, his eyes narrow…then the tiny little gesture and knowing gaze that asked if Mycroft had in mind what Lestrade thought he had in mind.

Mycroft gave a merry, tiny little smile, eyes laughing, and shrugged. Yes—yes, that was what he hoped. Was Lestrade interested?

Lestrade considered, then nodded and rose, following silently through the halls.

They stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut.

Mycroft turned, mouth opening—then shutting, as he tried to find words.

Lestrade smiled, and one hand rose, covering Mycroft’s mouth, silencing him.

Mycroft blinked—eyes suddenly dark. He swallowed, then gingerly placed a kiss on the tips of Lestrade’s first three fingers. The merest whisper of a kiss.

 Mycroft unlocked the rooms with a swipe card, then ushered his friend in. Once more he considered speaking—then held the silence, as Lestrade’s brown eyes smiled.

Mycroft’s chin lifted; he cocked his head, and gestured Lestrade toward the lush bathroom. The room was a private little heaven: white and indigo tiles, a large tub with jets, big enough for two and utterly decadent for one, an open shower—and in one corner a sauna. Mycroft gave a wide sweep, giving Lestrade the run of the room.

Lestrade sighed, softly.

Mycroft set a hand on his shoulder, tugged his navy-blue jacket…then, once he was sure Lestrade would cooperate, he eased it off, hanging it on a heavy hanger and placing it on a rack at the side of the room. He slipped his fingers down the front of Lestrade’s shirt, unbuttoning buttons; he unbuckled the belt of his trousers; unzipped his fly; eased him out of his clothing, folding and hanging and putting it all safe as he went, until Lestrade stood naked. Even then Mycroft didn’t stare, but smiled and politely looked away, letting his hands rise to his own suit.

Lestrade’s stopped him, pinning his hands and holding them still. He came around and stood in front of Mycroft. Then, cautiously, with clear lack of experience, he slipped his hands under Mycroft’s lapels.

Mycroft smiled, and nodded, then slid his hands over Lestrade’s, guiding him—showing him how it all was to be handled. The supple, sand-tweed wool jacket off, and hung; the glowing opalescent green-flash tie draped over a little metal rack of its own; then the pocket watch and chain and a watch fob shaped like a coat of arms removed from the waistcoat and coiled neatly in a little Japanese rice bowl glazed with flying swallows, safe on the counter that held the porcelain sink glazed with indigo koi. Then the waistcoat buttons.

Then, cautiously, with sudden shared awareness of Mycroft’s dark work, his shadowed profession, together they removed the shoulder holster, hanging it on a hook on the back of the bathroom door. Lestrade kissed Mycroft’s eyes, chasing away the cold and the worry and the winter frost…

Mycroft showed him how to hang the waistcoat on the little hanger that attached to the larger array.

Then Lestrade unfastened the grey and brown striped braces attached with leather loops to buttons inside Mycroft’s waistband. First the front—two buttons to the left of the fly, two to the right. Then the back—two directly over the center seam of Mycroft’s trousers, one button to either side of the seam. He gathered up the wide cloth, rolled it—then pulled Mycroft close, nuzzling at the nape of his neck, locking his arms around his stomach. One hand held the coiled braces tight, the other hand clutched over his own wrist, locking Mycroft in. He leaned his forehead against Mycroft’s spine, right where the top knob of his back turned into the curved arch of his neck.

Mycroft leaned into the embrace, eyes closed, breathing slowing, deepening. His hands caressed Lestrade’s, gathering the braces and shoving them deep into his trousers’ pocket before returning to trace fingers, linger on knuckles, curl around wrists.

Lestrade chuckled, traced his hands up Mycroft’s chest, caressing all the way, then found the first collar button. One button at a time he undid Mycroft’s shirt, fingers reaching under the crisp-ironed linen, still warm from Mycroft’s body. At a gesture from Mycroft he located the cufflinks set into the fine French cuffs and worked them free: He peeled back the fabric, located nipples, traced the hair on Mycroft’s chest—lighter than that on his own, and finer. He eased Mycroft out of the shirt entirely, and was about to go hang it, too, when Mycroft’s hands gathered it from his, bunched it lightly, and tossed it into a basket at the side of the room.

All right, he thought. Shirts into the laundry. Socks and pants, too, no doubt.

He unhooked Mycroft’s waistband, and found that the bespoke suit was closed at the fly with a row of buttons. He smiled, amused, as the buttons gave him far more excuse than a zipper would have to play over Mycroft’s slowly rising erection.

He tapped at Mycroft’s heels, and was amused when the other man heeled himself out of his shoes. Lestrade slipped him out of his trousers, and fought back a little laugh on finding Mycroft wore proper sock garters that held up the sleek black socks. He had to bury his face in Mycroft’s shoulder, cutting off the giggle the sight provoked…but was reassured by Mycroft’s own silent chuckle. The other man raised a leg, slipped the garter  and sock both free, and repeated it on the other leg.

Lestrade, then, eased down the dignified, light cotton boxers, gathered socks and underpants for the laundry, and took the trousers and garters over toward the rack. Mycroft followed, and took the trousers, emptying the braces into his hand and draping them over the rack, then clipping the trousers upside down with the creases carefully preserved in the suit hanger.

And then there they were, both naked. Lestrade pulled Mycroft close, stroking the soft skin, kissing freckles dusted over Mycroft’s shoulders.

If they had been younger men, he thought, they’d be having mad-ass wall sex by now.

He liked this better. He wondered if that, too, was a sign they were no longer young. Still, this slow, silent dance, this lazy progression toward ecstasy, offered something that warmed his heart and raised his spirits. He dropped a single kiss into the deep thumbprint hollow of Mycroft’s throat, just below the Adam’s apple, just above the sternum, poised between the wings of the clavicles. He kissed again, and traced the dip with the tip of his tongue. His hands slid around Mycroft’s waist, just over the crest of his hips.

Mycroft’s own hands slid down his back, cradled his bum, tickled along the fold between cheek and thigh, sought the greater crease between cheek and cheek. His mouth sought Lestrade’s ear, nipping at the lobe, making Lestrade squeak. He tapped, and gestured toward the sauna.

Lestrade hesitated, afraid of overheating, losing his rise. He raised his chin toward the huge open shower-corner. Mycroft shrugged, then nodded, and they padded over together, bare feet slapping lightly on the smooth tiles.

The water was wonderful. Mycroft ran it first scalding; then, eyes watching for Lestrade’s reaction, he turned it down cooler, then cooler, until it was nearly ice, chilling their bodies until it was as though they’d been swimming in the cold, deep waters of the sea, or the currents of a Scottish loch. Mycroft chased the water streaming over Lestrade’s shoulders and chest, catching it in his mouth, swallowing it down, kissing as he went. His tongue flicked over Lestrade’s nipples, pulled tight and high by the chill of the shower. He drew Lestrade’s cheeks wide, letting the cold water trickle and stream. They washed each other, sliding slick, pine- and mint-scented gel over each other, using it as an excuse to explore.

It smelled so good and clean, Lestrade thought. It felt both sexy and calm. The cold was erotic without being overwhelming. He tipped his head back, let the stream play over his jugular, felt himself grow cooler and cooler, until at last a shiver begins, and he was too cold…

And then Mycroft was drawing him from the shower, turning off the spray, toweling him dry.

They stood together, cool-fleshed as selkies fresh from the North Sea, clean, washed, at ease. Mycroft tugged Lestrade’s hand, pulling him through a second door into the bedroom.

It was a simple room. The bed was wide and long, in a plain frame with a modest slatted headboard and footboard, with only four pillows—two rather small, two more mere neck-rolls. Mycroft tossed back the duvet and the blankets, leaving only the top and bottom sheets. Then he turned off the lights--all the lights.

The room was dark and quiet, only the soft hush of late-night downtown traffic making its way in past the windows. The streetlights glowed, lighting the far end of the room like stage lights behind a scrim. Mycroft walked across the room, a dark shadow, and pulled the blackout curtains tight over the windows, summoning the darkness.

It was a deep, flawless dark, the kind of darkness Lestrade sometimes yearned for after a hard day, when he lay in his bedroom unable to sleep. His own rooms were never so totally black. It was like being in a cave, cut off from all sources of light—cool, silent, calm, safe.

Mycroft walked back, his footsteps on polished hardwood the only indication of his approach. Lestrade was impressed at how well he knew the space, though as the man approached he did hear the faintest sounds of fingertips tracing over the footboard, navigating in total darkness. He came around the end of the bed and stopped just before he’d have fallen against Lestrade.

They stood, listening to each other, feeling the mixed warmth and cool of each other’s flesh, mere inches away. Lestrade raised one hand to trail over Mycroft’s arm. Mycroft made a soft, incoherent sound, and his arm slithered around Lestrade’s waist, pulling him close and reaching hungrily for a kiss. They leaned into it, tongues stroking, thrusting, penetrating deep. Lestrade gripped Mycroft’s head, fingers slipping and catching in the damp, cold hair.

Cold hair, cold skin—mouth so warm it was hot. Sweet-sharp scent of pine and mint, and the first faint musty smell of desire. Lestrade drew one hand free, let it slide between them, let it seek Mycroft’s groin, where it found a cool cock just beginning to stir to life flanked by the burning blood-hot valley in the turn of Mycroft’s thigh, the hot pulse driving at the tips of his fingers. Mycroft moaned again, and groped behind him, pulling back the top sheet, then tumbling them both down to the waiting mattress.

“Uh…” Lestrade thought of saying, “Oh, yeah,” or “God, please.” But words seemed too heavy, too intrusive. “Uh,” he sighed again, stirring, shifting to make space on the mattress beside his lover. He leaned forward, found Mycroft’s chin, licked and kissed and sighed. Lay down wet patches and blew on them softly. Found lips, and dusted over them with kisses so chaste they crossed over the date-line and became pure sex, silent torment…

Mycroft panted, breath gusting over Lestrade’s mouth. He inched, one tiny motion at a time, turning them until they lay at ease in the center of the mattress. Then one leg rose, hooked over Lestrade’s hip, pulled him close. Mycroft rocked against Lestrade, cock to cock, hand curved over the swan-arch of Lestrade’s nape, his other hand cupping the turn of Lestrade’s jaw. He whined, then bit lightly along Lestrade’s throat.

Lestrade pulled closer, mouthing along Mycroft’s cheekbone, turning over choices…

The silence, the total darkness, the air of the room moving over their still-cool skin, the soft chuffs and sighs, the wordless moans. He wanted no lights. He wanted no words. He wanted whatever they did to exist in this perfect, mute dance of scent and taste and touch and pure sound.

So, nothing that required the question of clean or not-clean, condoms or bareback. Hands…the turn of hip and press of thigh, cock to cock, a million choices, all that could be safely made without words.

Lubricant would still be nice, though…

He risked flailing sideward, seeking the bedside dresser, pulling on the drawer handle. Mycroft, beside him, laughed, then, and lunged over him, leaning a drawer further down and scrambling inside. He came out moments later and slipped a tube of lube and a cluster of condom packets into Lestrade’s hands…but he said nothing.

So—Mycroft too had recognized the intensity of the wordless dance. Lestrade slipped one condom packet between their palms, held it there. Then, warily, he sounded a rising note of question.

Needed? Not needed?

The question, wordless, ate up the darkness and the desire and growled at them. Lives were won and lost…and, yet—

The silence. So sweet…

“Clean,” Mycroft gasped, “I’m clean. You?”

“Yes.”

The packet dropped away, disappearing into darkness. It was still a gamble, Lestrade thought—but a gamble with one of the very few men he’d trust. He groaned with it, fingers scrambling on the lube…and away, choosing yet another option.

He grabbed Mycroft, flipped him, leveraging that long, elegant body easily after years of police work. He planted a hand on Mycroft’s chest and began a slow, delicate trip down his lover’s body—hands and mouth tracing and touching, nipping, laying down tracks of moisture and blowing them away, teasing nipples, tasting the little, private well of Mycroft’s navel… finding his cock, kissing the fine, soft skin. He cradled Mycroft’s balls, felt them tighten and firm as they lay on his palm.

“Aaahhh….” The sound was both song and sigh. “Ahhhh….”

Clean. He smelled so clean and sweet—not just mint-sweet, or pine, but the sweetness of musk and fresh sweat and skin still barely dry from the shower. The sweet of the first drops of pre-come.

Lestrade let his lips lie against skin even softer and more tender—fine as kidskin; faintly moist. He felt Mycroft’s cock, firm and solid, dense, heavy. He nuzzled, then found the head, explored the slippery layer of foreskin, the slick head, smooth as the inside of his own cheek and a thousand times more sensitive. He explored with a firm tongue tip, pushing the foreskin, teasing the delicate slit. Mycroft barely controlled a surge, hips shaking with the effort.

The first drops of pre-come were sweet-salt and slippery, blood-warm. They tasted like tears and desire, musky and emotional. The flavor merged with all the scents, filling Lestrade’s sinuses, blooming the way perfume blooms, or fine wine.

They were there in the flawless darkness, two bodies without faces or words.

Lestrade drew the tip of Mycroft’s cock into his mouth with a slow, strong draw, sucking it in, letting vacuum pull the head in past the firm grip of his lips. The foreskin slid, slow to leave the friction of his kiss. He slid the delicate tip of his tongue over the slick, satin-sleek inner skin of the knob.

Mycroft released a light, bird-like note followed by an almost silent sigh. Lestrade felt fingers spider down his arm, over his shoulder, finding the nape of his neck and cradling it firmly. Mycroft stroked the short hair, where neck met skull—tiny, stroking motions, even as his palm held him firm, begging him not to pull away.

He smiled against Mycroft’s cock; chuckled, letting the sound thunder deep in the arched barrel of his chest, roll up and vibrate in his throat, through bone, shaking everything. His eyes were closed, of no use in the black of the night room. Instead he existed in memory and touch and imagination.

He drew Mycroft’s prick in slowly, experiencing the sensations completely. The firm, plump flesh quivered with life. He could feel Mycroft’s pulse under his lips and tongue, feel the twitch and swell against his palate. He reached for Mycroft’s nearest knee and found it, then drew his palm slowly up his lover’s inner thigh, exploring the muscles—front and back, and the inner muscles that controlled the inward angle. He found the high, hard tendon running from the front lip of the pelvic bone down toward the knee. Found the sensitive valley between hip and groin. He traced that valley, fingers flowing along the deep divide like water, trickling, tickling, tracing the empty space.

Mycroft fought back a thrust, strangling a panting whine.

The head of the cock passed from hard palate to soft; from soft to the swallowing pulse of Lestrade’s throat. He balanced gag against gulp, teasing…and felt his lover battle against need under his hands, warring with his own reflexive need to buck upward.

He felt a wild mix of fondness and desire and power. To have come to this, ended here, starting with a silent hour spent over a glass of scotch… To have been led to this by this layered man—layered in mind and memory, layered in meaning and motive—as layered as his armor of coat and suit and fine linen shirting…

He felt the hand against his neck draw him up, then—pull gently away from the cock, upward toward Mycroft’s head. He grunted, unsure, and both hands, then pulled—one at his neck, the other seeking his hand and holding fast.

He let Mycroft’s cock slip free, and allowed himself to be led higher and higher, turned, until they lay on their sides, kissing. Mycroft’s hands slid free, then, tracing him, as though he were clay and Mycroft shaped him with supple fingers. Meanwhile Mycroft shifted, until their thighs were interlocked. He rolled his groin against Lestrade’s like a ship in heavy seas rolls with the waves.

Lestrade rolled in return…then, clutching, found the little tube of lubricant trapped under his ribs. He slipped it free, then opened it one-handed, oozing a warm blob over himself, then another over Mycroft.

The results were instant—the rock and heave suddenly gone satiny and slick. Lestrade growled, tucked the tube at the top of the bed against the headboard, then gripped Mycroft’s waist with both hands, pulling him close. Mycroft, moaning, ratcheted with increasing speed, firm clockwork thrusts. He slipped one arm around Lestrade’s back, bracing them against each other, chest to chest. The other hand slid up to cradle Lestrade’s skull as he dropped down and down into a kiss deep and turbulent as a whirlpool.

The riptide of arousal tugged at Lestrade, buffeting him, shattering his controls. Scent—again, the musk-mint-pine, the clean sheets, the slightly musty smell of the rooms, too often empty. The sounds—slick-squish-slither of two cocks in lubricant ploughing against each other’s thighs. Moans, pants, whines so delicate they blossomed and died and were lost to memory in the moment of their own birth.

Mycroft clutched tight. He heaved, swinging Lestrade down below, swinging himself up, until he straddled his lover. Lestrade gasped as they shifted alignment, then realized Mycroft intended to ride him to orgasm. He waited, expecting delay as Mycroft prepared himself—but the other man settled himself against Lestrade’s hard-on, then hovered. Lestrade could feel the other man’s tight sphincter shift, settle, ease against the slick tip, glossed with lubricant. Then, slowly, steadily, but in a single move, the other man sank down on him, with no apparent pain or resistance—relaxed, controlled, skilled.*

Lestrade didn’t manage to think much about it, though—his brains were turning inside out as the warmth and clench and slide stole his mind entirely. He keened his pleasure, broken by it. His hands sought Mycroft’s hips, only to be captured, drawn back up over his head—not high or trapped, but so close to his crown he could feel the brush  and tickle of his own short hair as Mycroft’s fingers tangled with his own. Mycroft leaned down and kissed him again, swallowing Lestrade’s grunts and squeaks.

Lestrade could feel Mycroft smile. He tried to fight a hand free, to caress Mycroft’s full erection. Mycroft gripped tight, and instead arched low over his lover, hips rolling. His cock brushed against Lestrade’s stomach, caught between them, as Mycroft rode, setting a pace that started slow and lazy, but quickly accelerated—trot, canter, gallop…

They panted, now. Lestrade’s mind was a blur of need and need-met. His fingers clung to Mycroft’s; his lips nipped and bit against his lover’s mouth. The motion carried him…carried him…carried him. He was riding Mycroft’s rhythm as Mcyroft rode his cock, angling deeper and deeper, driving further and further down, until both men were mad.

“Nnnnnnnnnnn…” Lestrade whimpered, almost there. “Nnnnnnnnnnnnn…..oh.”

“Yes. Oh, yes….”

Lestrade’s world exploded in black-light flashes and stellar-white novas behind his eyelids. He broke free of Mycroft’s hands, arms going around Mycroft’s chest, pulling him close. He buried his face in Mycroft’s shoulder. Even as he started the liquid descent into aftermath, he rocked for Mycroft, letting the last of his erection and the satin-wet skin of his stomach work together to carry Mycroft higher, higher—and then over the top.

Mycroft shouted, a sobbing sound, beautiful in the black dark of the room. He fell against Lestrade’s chest.

At last they fell apart, Mycroft rolling sideward to lie beside Lestrade. They sprawled on the sheets—sheets still dry and clean. The air, stirring softly, began to dry the edges of come on their bellies almost instantly.

Mycroft’s hand groped until he found Lestrade’s. His fingers again laced through, holding on. Lestrade squeezed, softly.

“Good?” he asked.

His only answer was a small sound—contentment.

They slept, then, too limp to care for more than their silent joy and the tangle of their hands and the slow, sweet sound of each other’s breath. In the dark and the silence, they were not alone.

*One: Yes. It can be done. It helps enormously for the “bottom” to be ready, willing—and able, in the sense of having the experience to know what to do and how to do it. Lube is also good. TWO: Unless you’re skilled, do not try this without preparation. It’s not just a “are you horny enough” thing—it does take knowing how to relax on cue. Consider it the sexual equivalent of fire-eating or sword swallowing: both are tricks of skill, but only a complete idiot would attempt them without first training quite a lot, and understanding the principles pretty thoroughly. Three: I have included this specifically because it is something that might happened when one lover at least is skilled and experienced already, and to permit a bit of variety to break up the norms of fingering, prostates, and the rest of the standard array of slash activity. Just consider it a bit of high-flying show-off grandstanding on Mycroft’s part. He may be reserved, but he’s in a mood to prove that it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. (grin)


End file.
